How Could We Lose Angel?
by Amy723
Summary: A rentfic. This story traces Angel's life from the time he came out to his parents to the time of his death.
1. At Sixteen

Note: The character, Angel Dumott Schunard, is not mine __

Note: The character, Angel Dumott Schunard, is not mine. He was created by Jonathan Larson, may he rest in peace. Also, the Times Square described in this chapter is how it used to be before Disney took it over.

HOW COULD WE LOSE ANGEL?

At Sixteen

"Stop, please. Ow! Stop hitting me!" I hold up my hands to shield the blows. It's no use, I'm just too fuckin' skinny.

He hits my face, my back, my arms. He kicks me. All the while he screams at me.

"How could you do this to your mother and me? Why are you being so selfish?"

Selfish?! I poured my heart out to them. I told them something that I thought they should know. It took a lot of goddamn courage to say it, too.

Selfish would be if I continued to live a double life. If I continued to live in secret and have my parents believe I was something I'm not.

He picks me up by the back of my shirt and drags me toward the door. All the while she just sits there and watches but doesn't do shit.

He opens the door and throws me out into a snowbank. I get up and, like a fool, I run back to the front door expecting to get back in.

The door is locked. I pound on it. I pound and pound until my knuckles bleed. 

I'm freezing. I have no jacket on and I'm not wearing any shoes. She pokes her head out from behind the living room curtain.

"Ma, let me in!" I plead. "I got no jacket or shoes." She ducks her head back behind the curtain.

I wait, and I wait and I wait. She doesn't come to the door and she doesn't come back to the window.

I pound on the door some more. It opens slightly and she stares out at me.

"Ma, let me in," I say breathlessly.

"No," she says and slams the door.

"It's cold out here Ma! Let me back in, please," I beg.

"Go away," she says from behind the door. "You're not my son!"

Not her son? Not her son! How can she say that?

Pissed off, I pound on the door some more. Not because I want to get back in. But because I hate her.

"Bitch! You can go to hell!" I scream. I shove my hands in the pockets of my baggy jeans and walk down the street. It's 9:00 on a Sunday night.

My name is Angel Dumott Schunard. I'm Puerto Rican, French and German. My mom's from Puerto Rico, but her last name is Dumott because her ancestors came to Puerto Rico from France. My dad's German-American.

I gotta stop thinking about those people as if they're still my parents because they're not. 

I'm walking down Flatbush Avenue trying to look as if nothings wrong. It's not easy since it's the dead of winter and I have no jacket or shoes. I bite my lip to keep myself from crying.

Only two more blocks 'til I get to Erich's. Erich will understand. I need to see Erich.

I'm in the alley behind his building. I make a snowball and throw it against his bedroom window. The light's on, but no one comes to the window. I make another one and throw it. A blonde boy pulls up the shade, sees me and opens the window.

He's so beautiful. He's the only one in this world who really knows me.

"Angel," he says in a loud whisper, "what are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?" I plead.

"Sure, come up the fire escape."

I climb up the fire escape and climb into his bedroom window. I pull the window closed. Erich gasps when he gets a good look at me.

"What happened to you?" he asks with genuine concern.

"Well," I say, on the verge of tears, "I did it. I came out to my parents."

"You're hand is bleeding!"

I look at my right hand. I had forgotten it was bleeding.

"Yea," I say. "I was pounding on the door trying to get back in."

"They threw you out of the house?" He asked, his blue eyes widening.

"Why else would I be walking around outside with no jacket or shoes?"

"Let me get a bandage for you hand, I'll be right back," he tells me. About five minutes later, he comes back with a bottle of peroxide and an ace bandage.

I take a deep breath as he cleans the wound. It starts to feel better when he wraps the bandage around my hand.

"Lay down," he says to me.

"Yes, Nurse Erich," I laugh. He laughs too. I lay down on the bed and close my eyes.

He stretches out on the bed next to me. I can feel his breath on my cheek. We put our arms around each other.

"I'm here for you," he tells me. I know he his. He's always here for me.

I must have dozed off because that's the last thing I remember. That is, before I hear heavy footsteps in the hall.

"Angel, wake up," whispers Erich. "Get under the bed." I do as I'm told. From under the bed, I see Erich go to his desk and open a school textbook.

The bedroom door is forced open. I see Erich's father's work boots.

"Erich," he says in a thick Polish accent, "what are you up to?"

"Homework, Dad," I hear Erich say.

He steps close to the bed. I inch away. I hear the rustling of paper.

"Erich," says his father, "I find this in kitchen. You know what it is?"

"It looks like a letter," he says nervously.

"Who write such filth?" asked the Polish accent. "What this means?"

"I don't know, Pop," says Erich.

"This better not be Sissy-boy's handwriting," the Polish voice rises slightly.

"Sir?" 

"The Spanish one. The one what look like a girl." He means me.

"Angel?"

"Angel. Angel! Now what kind of name is that for a boy?"

"It's just a name, Pop."

"Angel belong in Christmas song. On top of Christmas Tree. Goddammit!"

"Um, Pop," says Erich, defiant but nervous. "I'm trying to study." I hear paper ripping.

"I rip this up and throw it in garbage," says the Polish accent. "If I find more like this, I rip them too. Then I kill the Spanish Angel." I hear the heavy footsteps retreating.

Erich pokes his head under the bed.

"Babe, come out," he says. "Now!" I crawl out from under the bed.

We stand facing each other saying nothing for a while. I'm afraid and I want Erich to hold me. I reach my arms out to him, he backs away.

"I can't," he says, his voice cracking.

I hang my head and look down at the floor.

"Sorry, Babe," he says regretfully. "But you gotta go. He'll kill us both." Erich's right.

"I know, Honey," I tell him. "But can I at least have a jacket and some shoes if I have to go back out again?"

"Sure," he says smiling. He's got a beautiful smile. 

He goes into his closet and pulls out a pair of Nikes and his basketball jacket. 

"Not your b-ball jacket!" I say.

"I got cut from the team when my grades dropped," he insists. "Got no use for it now."

I put it on. It's royal blue with yellow sleeves and has his name stitched over the left breast in yellow thread. I sit on the bed and put the shoes on. Good thing we're the same size.

I walk over to the window, but he grabs my arm.

"You can't go yet," he says. Before I can ask what he means, he goes over to his desk and opens his little safe and pulls out a wad of cash.

"What are you doing, crazy girl?" I laugh. He takes my left hand and puts the money in it.

"It's about seventy-five bucks, give or take," he tells me. "I want you to have it."

"I can't."

"Baby, you need it."

"But it's your money," I protest.

"Get yourself a room," he insists. " I want you to keep your pretty ass off the streets." He smiles at me with a twinkle in his eye.

I take the money and put it in one of the jacket pockets. Then, impulsively, I grab his face and give him a big kiss on the mouth. He doesn't fight me.

I pull away and look at him for a moment. He looks back at me, breathing heavily. The footsteps are heard again. Erich runs to the window and pulls it open.

"Go now, please!" he panics. "He'll have your head for sure if he sees you here."

I climb out of the window and run down the fire escape. When I get to the ground, I look up at his window and blow him a kiss. Expressionless, he pulls the window closed and lowers the shade.

I keep walking and walking until I find myself in Times Square. I'm surrounded by bright lights and loud noises. Noises that I ain't never heard before.

"Hey Sweet Thang, you look lost. Need any help? Heh, heh."

"Hey Baby, do you for five bucks."

Are they talking to me? I walk right past them without looking at them.

I hear sirens, loud music, gunshots.

I see signs for Peep shows, X-Rated movies, adult bookstores.

Finally, I come across a sign that says "Hotel".

I go in and approach the front desk. An old guy sits behind it, reading a newspaper.

"Yea?" he says without looking up.

"How much for a room?" I ask, nervously. He looks up at me and just stares for a moment.

"A little young ain't ya?" he asks. "Sure ya wanna stay here?"

"Sir, I just need a room for tonight," I plead. "I got money."

"Twenty dollars, then," he sighs. I hand him a twenty and he pulls a key off of a nail in the wall.

"Take the elevator," he says pointing behind me. "Second floor, third door on the right. Number 205."

I take the key and get into the elevator. It's the kind with a heavy gate you have to pull before the thing'll move. I push button #2.

I find Room 205 and open the door. The place is a fucking dump! But it'll have to do.

There's a small bed with a pillow and blanket in the far corner. A battered nightstand next to it. A sink in across from it with a medicine cabinet above the wall above the sink. A closet sized room with a toilet and shower stall.

I pull back the blanket on the bed and examine the sheets. They're dingy gray and dusty. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't sleep here. But these aren't normal circumstances.

Although there's a radiator in the room, it's cold as hell. I leave everything on, even the shoes, and crawl under the blanket.

I wake up some time the next morning. I think about going to school, but what's the point? Ain't been there in nearly two weeks. I hate the place. The only good thing about it is Erich. But he's been cutting lately, too.

What the hell, maybe Erich will go. After all, he's gotta kiss his Pop's butt so's not to appear guilty of whatever it is Pop thinks I do. 

On my way out of the building, I pass the front desk and lay my room key down. The old guy is asleep and I don't want to wake him.

I look at the clock behind the desk. 10:30. Guess I won't go to school after all. 

I grab breakfast in some dingy coffee shop. A cup of coffee and a donut are the only things that look appetizing in that place. The coffee shop has a pay phone. I decide to call Erich. Hopefully he ditched school today.

The phone rings about ten times before someone answers. It's his mom and she doesn't speak much English.

"Erich, please?" I say into the phone.

"You want talk to Erich?" she says, "I go see." Within two minutes, I hear Erich's voice.

"I can't believe your mom couldn't figure out it was me," I told him.

"Actually, she's standing right here," says Erich impatiently, "what do you want?"

"I wanna see you today," I tell him. "Seeing as we're both not in school today."

"I can't," says Erich.

"Why not?"

"Ma saw you running in the alley last night wearing my jacket. She told Pops."

"Aw shit! I'm sorry babe," I tell him. I'm so stupid. I should have gone in the other direction.

"Well, they were bound to find out sooner or later," he says.

"So, will I ever see you again?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"Don't think so," he says, with a sarcastic edge. "They're sending me to live with my grandma in Poland."

"Oh no!"

"And you can't write either," he snaps. "Pop says no contact whatsoever." Before I could say anything, he hung up. Determined to get an explanation from him, I deposited some more money and dialed his number again. His mom answered again.

"Please Miss," I beg. "Can I talk to Erich?"

"No!" she screams. "You no call here no more." Then she curses at me in Polish and hangs up.

I leave the coffee shop and just walk. I have no idea where I'm going. I don't even sense the two guys following me. Suddenly, one of them has me in a headlock.

"Gimme some money, faggot boy!" he growls into my ear. Before I can reach into the pocket of my jacket, the other guy punches me in the stomach. The jacket is stripped off me and so are the shoes. I'm back where I started.

I feel a kick in my back.

"Stay off the fuckin' street, faggot!" I hear someone hiss.

I cough up blood and try to get up. I hear another voice. One that's totally different from the other two.

"Hey, young man," says the voice. "You look like you're in pretty bad shape."

Finally, I'm able to sit up. I look up into the face of a well-dressed white man. He's smiling and his face seems to be encircled in light. Like a halo.


	2. At Seventeen

At Seventeen

I have no idea what a scene like this would actually be like. All I know is that this is a phenomenon in among wealthy gays. **_The majority of gays do not act this way toward young guys!_** This chapter takes place in the early 90s when Geraldo Rivera had a talk show that was very much like Jerry Springer's.

At Seventeen

I put on my white dress shirt slowly. I really hate doing this. But I have to do it. If I want to have a place to live, that is.

I have my Armani pants on. They're starting to get a little tight. Now all I have to put on is the matching jacket. I examine myself in the full-length mirror. I don't look nearly as good as I did a year ago. Jason is starting to notice.

"Looking a little long in the tooth, Precious," he said to me yesterday. "Let's not make it a habit, shall we? Wouldn't want anyone to think you're getting old." 

I wanted to claw his eyes out for that, but I couldn't. My job is to just stand there and take his abuse.

Speaking of abuse, my eye is healing up nicely.

There's a knock at my bedroom door. 

"Who is it?" I call out, still examining myself in the mirror.

"The gentlemen will be here at 8:00," says Jason's voice in the hall. "Don't disappoint."

"I won't," I sing out. Don't disappoint. When have I ever disappointed? The only one left disappointed after Jason's little soirées was always me.

After giving myself a final once over, I look around the room. This has been my room for the past year. It's bigger than the apartment I grew up in. The one I was thrown out of exactly one year ago today.

My schoolbooks sit neatly on my desk. Oh yea, I'm back in school. 

But this time, instead of Erasmus Hall, it's an all-boys prep school. Jason pays my tuition.

"I'll not have an illiterate fool embarrassing me in front of my friends," he said to me when he first brought me here.

"When one of the gentlemen engages you in conversation," he told me, "it's your responsibility to hold up your end with intelligence and wit. You're young, which is good, but please don't be ignorant. Ignorance is bad, very bad."

Conversation isn't the only thing these so-called gentlemen have engaged me in. In addition to being intelligent and witty, I've also had to be flirtatious and cute. Not to mention docile and obedient.

The housekeeper pokes her head in and announces that the guests have arrived. She looks worn out and she sounds worn out, too.

I take my place at the top of the winding staircase and await my cue.

"Yes, Angel is from Puerto Rico," says Jason, trying to give the correct Spanish pronunciation to both my name and the name of the island I did not come from.

"Angel," he calls. When he says it in front of his friends, it sounds like On-Hell.

Time to make my grand entrance. I walk down the stairs. Not so fast as to appear impatient and not so slow as to appear indifferent. 

All the old bastards turn to look up at me. I hear "oohs" and "aahs". Come on, people, you act like you've never seen someone walk down stairs before.

As I've done so many times before, I walk right up to Jason and kiss his cheek. The housekeeper hands me a glass of champagne.

Before dinner is served, I will have spoken to about half of the men. There's six here tonight. The other three will have to wait until after dinner. 

"So On-Hell," says the old fogey named Morris. "How do you like school?" Like he really cares what I think of school.

"Oh, I love it," I say, making sure I don't mess up the tired old line. "One never tires of learning."

"Oh, I could teach you a thing or two," he says, winking at me. Oh, I'm sure you could! Not that anything you have to teach me is anything I want to know.

"Hola On-Hell," says the one called Dennis. His Spanish sucks even more than mine. For one thing, he pronounces the 'H' in hola.

"Hola señor," I say, taking his hand and kissing it. "Mucho gusto a conocerle." I look over at Jason to see if he approves. He nods. The old dude smiles from ear to ear. Can he look any freakier?

"Yo me voy al Puerto Rico," he says in his sucky Spanish. "Me enchante." Enchante is French, dumbass. I give him my cheesiest smile. I hope he thinks I'm actually interested in what he has to stay.

"Please, señor," I say in my fake Spanish accent, "could we not speak in English, por favor. I am trying to learn and I need the practice." I look over at Jason, he nods again. Good save.

"Why certainly," says Dennis. "But your English is much better than my Spanish." He could say that again.

"Gracias, señor," I say.

I move on to the next guy, Bernard. He doesn't say much, mostly he just smiles lecherously at me. I'm relieved when the housekeeper announces that dinner is served.

As always, my portions are considerably less than everyone else's. I'm not allowed to ask for seconds, either. I'll be getting tonight's leftovers all this week.

"No one desires a slob, kid," Jason once told me. At first, I didn't understand what he meant by "desires". Now I know all too well.

The men don't talk to me during the meal, but a few of them try to flirt with me. I'm not in a flirty mood. This game is getting played out.

After dinner, the housekeeper serves more champagne. Dennis, Brett and Curtis are all vying for my attention. They tell jokes, most of them raunchy, and tell me about themselves. I just keep drinking champagne. 

Suddenly, the room is spinning. I'm giggling uncontrollably and falling all over Dennis. He just told me the most disgusting and tasteless joke I've ever heard and I'm pretending to be amused by it.

Dennis catches me and holds on to me.

"Whoa, Jase!" he chuckles. "I think this little boy is ready for bed."

"Be my guest, Denny," Jason replies. "You know where to take him."

I'm being led up the stairs by Dennis. I hear him fumble with the doorknob. He throws me down on the bed. My eyes are closed. He slaps my face hard.

"Wake up!" he shouts. My eyes pop open.

"Now listen, you little spic," he hisses. "I haven't had any in a while and I want this to be good."

I don't remember what happens next because I pass out. I wake to the sound of voices in the hall.

"Very disappointed, Jase," I hear Dennis say. "You said the kid was something special."

"He is, Denny," says Jason, kissing ass. "He just got nervous and that's why he drank so much." I've never heard Jason defer to anyone before.

"I thought you said he was disciplined," snaps Dennis. "Are we going to have problems like we did with that kid who did drugs?"

"Oh no, Denny," says Jason, nervously. "On-Hell is new at this…"

"New?" laughs Dennis. "That kid looks like an old whore!"

I now realize that I'm naked. Before I can get up from the bed, I hear Jason burst into the room. I turn my head so I don't look at him. I hear him take off his belt.

Thwak!

"What the hell were you thinking, bitch?" he shouts at me. Now that's the Jason I know and hate.

"Getting drunk off your ass is never acceptable!" he shouts as the belt comes down on my bare back again.

Thwak!

Well, if he didn't want me to get drunk, he should have told the housekeeper to cut me off when I started getting tipsy. He kept a close enough eye on me the whole time. He knew when I'd had too much.

"Now you stay here and think about what you did and why it was wrong." Yes, dad.

I wake up the next morning with a nasty hangover. The housekeeper comes in with my breakfast on a tray. I cover my nakedness with the bedclothes, but it's too late. She's seen me. She doesn't react. I wonder what she thinks about what goes on in this house. She has to know. Jason doesn't do a very good job of hiding it.

"Mr. Jameson wants you to hurry up and get ready for school," she says in her usual monotone. "The limousine arrives at 8:00 sharp."

"What time is it now?" I ask. God, the welts on my back hurt like crazy.

"7:30." Great, I have only a half-hour to get ready. I scarf down my breakfast, which consists of leftovers from last night.

When I get into my bedroom, the first thing I see is a huge bouquet of roses on the dresser. I take the card and read it. 

__

"My dear," reads Jason's scrawl, _"so sorry you had your little mishap last night. You handled yourself well. Have a good day at school and we'll celebrate tonight. Love Daddy."_

Celebrate what? My getting drunk or my getting my ass beat? Since I don't have time to shower, I spray myself with cologne and put on my school uniform. The limo is waiting in front of the house when I get outside.

As I walk the halls of school, everyone stops and stares at me. Since this is a common occurrence, I don't pay attention. I'm not allowed to talk to my classmates and friendships are out of the question. 

Not only does Jason not want anyone to know what goes on in his house, he's afraid of any competition from guys my own age.

Of course there's the whispering. There's always the whispering. I just have to pretend I don't hear it.

"There he is again, acting like he's too good for us."

"Looks like a fuckin' queer if you ask me." 

Well no one asked you, so why don't you just shut the hell up?  
The limo isn't outside when I get out of school. I wait for half an hour before I realize that it's not coming. That's strange.

I hail a cab back to the house. My key won't go in the front door lock, so I ring the doorbell. The housekeeper answers.

"Oh," she says, stone-faced. "I forgot you were coming this afternoon." She opens the door wider and lets me in.

Forgot I was coming this afternoon? I come home around this time everyday. What the hell is going on here?

I walk into the living room and see a young black kid lounging on the sofa in my bathrobe. He's drinking tea and watching T.V. I can hear the "Geraldo" show. 

I clear my throat and the kid looks up. 

"Oh, hello," he says nonchalantly.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Anthony," he says, all snotty. "And who might you be?"

"I'm Angel," I tell him.

"Oh _you're _Angel!" he squeals and then erupts into a fit of giggles.

"How old are you?" I ask. 

"Fifteen," he says, with a smirk. Just as I thought.

The housekeeper comes in and hands me two shopping bags.

"Go and change into these clothes," she says. "Mr. Jameson wants you out by 5:00."

"What time is it now?" 

"3:15," she says. "Leave the uniform out so I can wash it. Anthony needs to wear it to school tomorrow." 

But he's too short to wear my clothes.

As I go upstairs I can hear Anthony cheering on Geraldo's guests.

"You go girl! Rip that bitch's hair out!"

Fifteen fucking years old. It would be interesting to see how much of that attitude he still has a year from now.

The bouquet of roses is still on the dresser, but a new card is attached. It says "Anthony" on the little blue envelope. I look into the wastebasket and see the pieces of the other card in there.

I'm being dumped. I don't know whether to jump for joy or bawl my eyes out.

I pull the clothes out of the bags. There's a pair of Calvin Klein jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt in one and a pair of hiking boots and a Gap denim jacket in the other. They're clean and in good condition, but they look like they've been worn before.

I take a shower before I get dressed. Might as well take advantage of the hour and a half I have left in this place. I use up all the shampoo and body wash. When I get out of the shower, I spray a whole bottle of cologne on myself.

When I get back downstairs, I go into the kitchen and help myself to some of last night's leftovers. I've just poured a big glass of milk as the housekeeper comes in.

"Hurry up and finish," she says. "Mr. Jameson says if you're still here when he returns from work, he's calling the police."

For the first time since I first got here, I wonder what he does for a living.

I finish eating and put the dishes in the dishwasher. The housekeeper is still standing there watching me.

"Well," I tell her. "I'll just go upstairs and get some things to take with me." I really want to take advantage of this.

"Mr. Jameson says that if there's anything missing from that room when he returns from work, he's calling the police." The bitch sounds like a robot.

"Well, can I at least have my allowance for this week?" I ask.

"No!" she shouts.

"No?" I shout back. I've never had the guts to talk back to her before and this is feeling good.

"Absolutely not," she says, unfazed. "Mr. Jameson says that you're to have nothing from here but the clothes you're wearing now."

"But what am I going to do without money?"

"Not my problem," she says. "I think it's best you go now."

"But it's only 4:30," I tell her. "Maybe I'll just go into the living room and chill with Anthony."

"You'll have no contact with that boy!" she shouts.

"Listen, bitch," I hiss at her. "At least give me some money if I have to leave this hellhole. If you don't, Mr. Jameson will have to call the police because I beat the shit outta you!"

She swallows hard and walks over to the counter. She pulls a wad of cash from a cookie jar. I thought only poor people like my parents kept a stash in a cookie jar.

She hands me the money and I count it. Thirty dollars. Not much, but it'll have to do. I walk toward the front door but she stops me.

"Wait!" she says. I turn around. She goes into Jason's office and comes back out again.

"Before you go, Mr. Jameson said to give you this." She hands me a business card. It says "Dennis Hargrove."

I turn and walk back toward the door. 

"Don't let da do' hitcha where da good Lawd split ya!" Anthony shouts at me as I walk past him.

I pause and look at him. He's got tea spilled down the front of the robe. Jason's not going to like that. I decide not to warn Anthony of the impending lecture and possible beating.

"What are you looking at, you old ho'?" he hisses at me. "You've worn out your welcome, be on your way." He shoos me with his hand. I roll my eyes and continue walking out the door.

As soon as I get outside, I rip up Dennis' business card.

I walk through Central Park. I visit the zoo and ride the Merry Go Round a few times. Hey, I've got all the time in the world.

When it starts getting dark, I decide to leave Central Park and go find somewhere to eat. I've only got five dollars left of what the housekeeper gave me.

I keep walking until I find myself in Greenwich Village. I look around at all the people. This place is so cool! 

I pass a bar that has a sign that boasts "live drag shows." Drag queens have shows? The place is called Miz Sherese's House o' Drag. I go in out of curiosity. The place is empty.

"Hello? We don't open until 9:00!" a voice sings out. From behind the bar emerges a tall black man dressed as a woman. He smiles big and wide when he sees me.

"Why hello Harvard. Whatchoo up to? Slumming?" he gives a deep throaty chuckle.

"Actually, I'm lost," I say. I don't know what else to say.

"Well, sit down, Sugar. I'll get ya somethin' to drink and we'll talk. Aw'ight?" He goes behind the bar and pours something into a glass.

"Coca cola for the young one," he says as he sets the glass down in front of me. Then, from out of nowhere, I start to cry.

Suddenly, it hits me that I have nowhere to go.

"Aw honey," says the drag queen, "things can't be that bad."

"But they are," I sob. "I have no place to go."

"Mama and Daddy kick you out when you dropped outta Harvard?"

"What? Oh, this isn't even my shirt. No, I got kicked out of some place else," I tell her.

"Well, my name is Sherese," says the queen. "I own this dive."

"I'm Angel," I say. Sherese smiles that wide smile again. 

"That suits you," he says. "Now tell old Sherese all about it."

"Well, I don't know," I tell her.

"Aw come on," he says, "there ain't nothin' this old queen ain't heard before. Been around the block a few times and then some." He chuckles again. I could get used to that chuckle.

"Well," I begin. "I was living with this rich guy for a year and he just kicked me out when he found someone younger." I can't believe I'm telling this to a total stranger. But if feels good to finally talk about what could never be mentioned before.

"I know, honey," says Sherese. "I been there. You were entertainin' his friends right?"

I nod. I feel embarrassed.

"Baby, it's okay," Sherese assures me. "You ain't got nothin' to be ashamed of. That ol' bastard, now. He's the one should be ashamed."

"Thanks for understanding," I tell him. "But I still got nowhere to go."

"Well, can you sing and dance?" he asks.

"A little," I say. "I also play the drums." I haven't played in over a year. For the first time since I got kicked out, I'm forced to remember Erich. We had a garage band. He can play the guitar better than Jimi Hendrix, I swear.

"Well, there ya go!" Sherese says. "You got yourself a job here, if ya want it. I have a little apartment upstairs that I share with my man, Ernie. You can crash on our sofa."

I can't believe this is happening. Someone is offering me a job and a place to stay. Suddenly, I fell wary.

"But…"

"But nothin' Angel Baby," says Sherese. "I ain't never gonna make you do any kind of nasty things that terrible man made you do. Ernie won't neither."

"I don't know how to thank you," I say. Sherese chuckles again and puts his arms around me. 

"Welcome to the family, Angel Baby," he says.

I haven't had a hug this good since I last hugged my mother.


	3. At Eighteen

At Eighteen

I don't know if there's really any sort of "drag queen initiation." The walk is my idea any resemblance to any actual practice is purely coincidental. By the way, drag queens are referred to as "she" when in drag and "he" when not in drag.

At Eighteen

I wait backstage for my grand entrance. I've gotten to be such an old pro at this that sometimes I surprise myself.

"And now," announces Miz Sherese, "please join me in welcoming our youngest and brightest performer…Miz Angel!" I get to keep my real name since Sherese thinks it suits me so well. 

I walk out onstage wearing a blue mini-dress, blue thigh-high stockings and blue stilettos. On my head is a jet black bob wig. I know I look good. The crowd goes wild.

I launch into Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" and the crowd just goes ga-ga. I was made for this!

I make the rounds at the edge of the stage, shaking hands and blowing kisses.

I remember the first time I did this. It was nearly a year ago and I was terrified. I started out playing the drums in the backup band, but Sherese kept bugging me to become a performer.

"Angel Baby, you got the face, the voice, the figure and the youth. Don't let it all go to waste," she used to tell me.

My first performance was terrifying. The song I sang was "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." It was the only song I was any good at.

In fact, it was the song I auditioned with to get into the High School of Performing Arts. Sherese convinced me to audition for the second semester of my junior year and I got in.

I'm a senior now and I love that school. No one beats me up. No one calls me a freak. I'm friends with almost everyone in that school, including teachers.

They all know about my night job and they don't hold it against me. Sherese Bradley and Ernesto Garica are listed in my school records as my aunt and uncle as well as my legal guardians. The school officials don't know that Sherese is really Sherwin Bradley and that he and Ernesto aren't even related to me.

My first performance was less than stellar. I received a polite applause and ran off stage. I was greeted in the wings by Sherese and another drag queen.

"Angel Baby," said Sherese, "I want you to meet my best girlfriend, Mama Rose."

"By day, I'm Ross Feinman," the queen says, shaking my hand. "By night, I'm Mama Rose Fine."

"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking hands.

"Now," said Sherese. "We've been discussing your performance."

"Sorry kid," said Mama Rose, "but it needs work."

"I know," I said, looking down.

"First," said Mama Rose, "change that song. It's religious in nature and it offends us Jews." Sherese hit him upside the head.

"The song is fine," she told Mama Rose. "He needs to build up his confidence."

"That he does," said Rose. "He needs to do the walk."

"That he does," said Sherese. "That he does."

"The walk?" I asked "What's that?"

"Tomorrow, you need to go out in the neighborhood in drag to get used to how people react to you," said Sherese.

"You're kidding!" I gasp.

"Uh uh," she insisted.

On the next day, a Saturday, I had to go outside in drag to see if anyone reacted favorably to what they saw. I didn't see how this was going to help me being as neither Sherese nor Rose were the least bit convincing in drag.

I put on the outfit Sherese picked out for me. A black miniskirt, a red top, a black leather jacket, red tights and black stiletto boots. On my head, I wore a long black curly wig.

The minute I stepped outside, some guy whistled at me. Another guy accidentally bumped into me.

"Oh, excuse me, Miss," he said.

A little boy came running up to me. I was afraid he was going to see right through my disguise. However, instead of taunting me, he asked me a question.

"Hey lady," he said, "got a nickel?" I was so relieved and so flattered that I opened my purse, took out a quarter and gave to him.

"Thanks lady," he said and ran off.

My God, they all thought I was really a girl!

I wanted to run home and tell Sherese. But I couldn't run in my high-heeled shoes, so I walked fast. A cabbie leaned out of the window of his cab.

"Hey baby," he said, "I can take you where ya wanna go."

"No thank you, Sugar," I said in my best girl voice. I didn't even know I had one, especially one that convincing.

When I got home, I took off my shoes and ran up the stairs. I couldn't wait to tell Sherese the good news.

"Hey, be quiet, nene," hissed Ernesto as soon as I threw open the door. He was sitting in his recliner reading a newspaper.

"Sorry Tío," I said. "Where's Sherese? I need to tell him something."

"Oh yea, Sherwin told me about you're little game of dress up," he said. Ernesto and I are kind of distant. I think he still resents Sherese for letting me live with them. 

"You and your strays, Sherwin," he said on my first night there, when he thought I was asleep. "When's it gonna stop? We got no room, let someone else play foster mother."

"So where is she?" I asked again, as I plop down on the sofa. I began rubbing my feet as I waited for an answer.

"Sherwin isn't feeling well," he said after some hesitation. "He's sleeping. Don't go waking him up."

"Oh, sorry to hear it," I said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" snapped Ernesto.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I'll just wait 'til he wakes up to tell him the good news."

"Sorry, nene," said Ernesto. "It's just the flu, that's all. Now what's your good news?"

"I managed convince damn near everyone on the block that I was a real girl."

"Que bueno," said Ernesto unenthusiastically, "Sherwin will be happy to hear it."

"But I'll wait til she wakes up," I said. I opened some drawers on the dresser that was in the living room and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I walked toward the bathroom but then something dawned on me. I turned around to face Ernesto.

"Ernesto," I said, "you know, Sherese has had that nasty cough for a while now. Over a month it seems. Are you sure it's just the flu?" Ernesto didn't' answer right away. He just stared at me for a moment.

"It's just the flu," he said solemnly. 

"Okay," I sighed and went into the bathroom to change.

That was six months ago and Sherese still has that nasty cough. No medicine can seem to get rid of it. Lately I've noticed that she's lost some weight. And she's also sleeping a lot more.

But I try not to worry too much. After all, I'm helping Sherese and Ernie make money. Half my tips go to help pay the bills. Ernie and I get along fine, now.

My second performance took off like a rocket. I sang the same song, but with my new-found confidence, I brought the house down.

During my performance, a young black woman came to the edge of the stage and swayed her arms. At least I thought it was a woman until he/she spoke.

"Halleluja, let's have some church!" said a very masculine voice coming from a very feminine face.

The audience demanded an encore, so I sang the song again, twice.

Afterwards, Christopher, a fellow performer who performs under the name Christina, let me pick some new songs out of his collection of sheet music.

That's where the Cher song came from. My other showstopper is "Vision of Love" by Mariah Carey.

Sherese was beside herself when I started to develop a following.

"See, Sugar," she gushed. "I told you that you were made for this!"

Some of the other performers gave me their old dresses, shoes, wigs and accessories. I was now a drag queen and proud of it.

After yet another rendition of "If I Could Turn Back Time," I go backstage. I'm looking for Sherese, I want to give him his share of my tips. When I don't see him, I knock on his office door. Rose answers.

"Rose, have you seen Sherese?" I ask, "I want to give her her cut." I hold up the brandy snifter full of cash for Rose to see.

"Honey," he says, "Sherese is real sick. I just called 911. They're sending an ambulance."

"Oh, no! Can I see her?"

"Afraid not, Angel. She's real sick."

"But what's wrong?"

"You don't know?"

"Well, she's had the flu for the longest."

"The flu? That's what she told you she had?" Rose looks at me in disbelief.

"Well, yea. You mean it's not the flu?" I'm getting confused.

"No, Sonny, it's not the flu," sighs Rose.

"Then what is it?" 

Rose looks at me for a moment and then heaves a deep sigh.  
"I'll let Sherese explain it to you when she's feeling better."

Two days later, I was able to see Sherese in the hospital. I hate to say it, but she looked awful. She was pale and weak and skinny. The Sherese I knew and loved was chubby and vibrant.

"Angel Baby," she cries when he sees me. He throws open his arms and I go running into them. 

"How have you been?" she asks me. "Still singing pretty?" 

"Ya know it," I tell her. "I miss you. When are you coming home?"

Sherese doesn't answer, she just sighs. Just then Rose, dressed as Ross, comes in.

"Hello Angel," he says.

"Hey Rose," I reply.

"Remember," he says, "when I'm dressed like this, it's Ross."

"Sorry."

"Look, Angel," says Ross. "Would you mind giving Sherwin and me some time alone? We need to discuss some legal things." Ross was Sherese and Ernie's lawyer.

"Sure," I say and I go wait out in the hall.

"So, Sherwin," I hear Ross say. "Did you tell Angel yet what's wrong with you?"

"Not yet, Ross," says Sherese.

"You're gonna hafta tell him soon," says Ross. "The kid thinks it's the flu."

"That's what Ernie and I have been tellin' him. So he wouldn't worry."

"Tell him it's AIDS, Sherwin," insists Ross.

AIDS? I learned about AIDS in school, but I never thought it would affect anyone I knew.

Ross steps out into the hall and looks at me.

"Angel," he says, "please come back into the room. Sherwin and I have something to tell you." I nod and follow him back into the room.

Sherese looks like she's been crying.

"Angel Baby," she says, "I don't know no other way to tell you this."  
"Just tell him," urges Ross.

"I got AIDS, baby. I'm probably going to die in this here hospital."

I nod my head solemnly and tell Sherese I understand. I tell him that I'll pray for her.

"I could always use prayers, Sugar," she says, smiling. "Thank you."

On the bus ride home, I start to cry. The elderly woman next to me puts her hand on my shoulder.

"What's wrong, son?" she asks.

"I just found out my Aunty is very sick," I tell her, "she's dying."

"Well, son," she says, "everything is according to God's plan. You're Aunty is going to a better place."

I thank her and then get off at my stop. I know she means well, but how dare she say that God wants Sherese to die?

I'm awakened in the middle of the night by Ernie.

"Angel, wake up," he grunts. I rub my eyes and sit up on the sofa.

"What is it?"

"Sherwin died a half hour ago."

The funeral is simple but elegant. It's held at the Unitarian church that Sherese belonged to. There sure are a lot of people there. It doesn't surprise me though. Sherese was loved by the gay community and the arts community.

After the burial, I follow Ernie to the corner where he hails a cab. He ignores me the whole time we're walking. But when we reach the corner, he turns to me and glares.

"Go away!" he shouts.

"But I'm coming home with you," I tell him.

"It's not your home no more," he hisses. "Now that Sherwin is gone, there's no reason for me to baby sit you."

"But Ernie…"

"Save your cute little pout," he snaps. "You're eighteen fucking years old. It's time you learned how to take care of yourself. Instead of relying on old queers to take care of you. 'Cause, nene, there is nothing sadder than an old queer who can't take care of himself."

He sticks his hand in the air and a cab pulls up. Not knowing what else to do, I try to climb into the cab with him. But he pushes me out and slams the door.

I must look pretty pathetic right now, sitting on the sidewalk in a dark suit bawling my eyes out. A car pulls up and honks its horn. The driver rolls down the window. It's Ross.

"Get up off your ass and get in the car," he orders. I do as I'm told.

"Ernie doesn't want me to stay with him," I sniff.

"I know," says Ross. "But he was too chicken-shit to tell you sooner. Had to wait 'til you were at your worst."

"He never liked me," I reason.

"Join the club, kiddo," Ross laughs. "He doesn't like anyone. I don't know how Sherwin put up with him as long as he did."

"But what am I going to do?" I ask. "I have no where else to go."

"Yea ya do," says Ross. "You'll stay with your grandma."

"Grandma?"

"Me," Ross says smiling.

"But Ernie says I need to learn to take care of myself," I protest.

"Fuck what Ernie says," Ross chuckles. "The reason he's so damn bitter is 'cause that's how he grew up under Bautista's regime."

"Who's Bautista?"

"The dictator of Cuba before Castro."

"I didn't know Ernie was Cuban. I thought he was Puerto Rican."

"Ernie is an asshole, that's what he is."

I notice that Ross has pulled up in front of the House O' Drag.

"Come on, Angel," says Ross. "We got work to do."

"Oh, don't make me go up there," I plead.

"You need to get your stuff," Ross says. "Ernie hasn't been able to wear your size since well, ever."

We get to the door of the apartment and Ross bangs on the door hard.

"Who the hell is it?" screams Ernie from inside.

"You're gonna let us in you pathetic windbag," shouts Ross. Ernie shuffles to the door and opens it.

"What!" he shouts at Ross.

"You're gonna let the kid get his stuff," says Ross. "It's not like you'll be able to wear it, ya know."

"He gonna stay with you?"

"Yes!"

"It must be nice to be young and cute and have everybody kiss your little butt," Ernie hisses at me.

"Oh it is Ernie," I tease. Now where did the attitude come from? 

As Ross helps me gather my clothes, Ernie stands there making smart ass comments.

"Don't forget your stinkin' hair spray, Princess," he snaps. I pick up the can from the dresser and shake it.

"Oh, but this can's empty," I tell him. "Will you dispose of it properly for me?" I throw it at him and it bounces off his fat belly. For a minute, I regret doing that, but he just stands there staring at me.

There's only two weeks until I graduate from school. I'm going to miss that place. Ross says he'll help me find a job after graduation. Meanwhile, the two of us are trying to keep the House O' Drag afloat.

It's my first performance since Sherese died. I'm wearing black to honor her memory. The song I chose is "One Sweet Day" by Boyz II Men with Mariah Carey. I bought the sheet music last week and worked on it day and night.

I make it about halfway through the song and then stop singing. I burst out crying and collapse on stage. The room is silent. Mama Rose comes out and taps my shoulder.

"Angel, get up," she says. I try to but I can't. She puts his hands under my arms and pulls me up.

"Is Angel going to be okay?" asks Monique, the convincing drag queen with the masculine voice.

"Yea, yea," Rose assures her. "Time for intermission, folks."

As Rose leads me offstage, Monique leads the crowd in singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Her baritone voice shakes the rafters.


	4. At Nineteen

Since the passage of the Ryan White Act in 1985, all blood donations are now tested for HIV antibodies

Since 1985, all blood donations are now tested for HIV antibodies.

At Nineteen

Ross helped me get a job after graduation. I work in the kitchen of a hospital. 

He's been after me to get an HIV test for months.

"It's for your own good," he says.

"But it's been a while since I've had sex. About two years at least." 

Men have come on to me, but it's hard for me to trust anyone in that way thanks to Jason.

"But the last time you had sex, it was with someone you didn't know," says Ross. 

"How do you know?" I ask. Had Sherese told him my private business?

"Sherwin told me about Jameson from Central Park West," says Ross. "Said you were that pervert's houseboy." 

I feel my face getting hot and I look down at the floor.

"You got nothing to be ashamed of," Ross tells me. "As for Jameson, the fires of hell will be rimming him soon enough." 

I can't help but laugh at that image.

I like my job at the hospital. My coworkers are nice and I enjoy chatting up the patients as I bring them their food. I especially like going to the AIDS floor. I feel like I'm doing Sherese's memory proud when I talk to the AIDS patients like they're human beings. It's important to me to make them feel special.

But one day, all of that ended for me. In fact it was an act of anonymous kindness that cost me my job.

I run home on the verge of tears. Bursting into the apartment, I startle Ross.

"Kid, you're home early," he says. "Is everything all right?" I burst out crying.

"Does it look like everything's all right?" I shout.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I lost my job, Ross," I bawl. 

"How? You were doing so well. The director told me so himself."

"We had a blood drive last week," I begin to explain.

"You donated blood?!" he shouts.

"Well, yea," I tell him. "I was only trying to do something good." Ross grabs my shoulders and shakes me.

"Stupid kid! Why didn't you tell me there was going to be a blood drive at the hospital?"

"I didn't think of it," I told him.

"Well, you should've told me," he said. "Then I would have told you not to donate until you've been tested."

"I didn't think I'd be HIV positive."

"Hello? You were a prostitute, Angel!" he shrieks. I scrunch up into the fetal position on the sofa and hold my hands over my ears.

"Stop yelling!" I scream. "Please!"

Ross sits down next to me on the sofa and pats my back. His voice is calmer now.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "That was a low blow."

I say nothing. I just lay there.

"But listen to what I say," he tells me. "You should have gotten tested when I first told you. You were at risk because of your past."

"I wanted to forget my past," I tell him.

"I know you did and I don't blame you," he says. "But sometimes you can't forget your past. Sometimes you gotta learn from it."

"Now what am I going to do?" 

"Don't worry about it now. We'll decide tomorrow."

"But I still got pay coming to me," I tell him. "I can't go back there, it'll be too humiliating."

"Relax," Ross says. "I'll call the director and tell him to mail your last check."

I spend most of the next day sleeping, eating and watching T.V. Ross is in his office and he leaves me alone.

At dinner, he says he has something to tell me.

"It's not easy for me to say this, Angel," he begins.

"What?"

"I can't let you stay here," he says.

"Why not?" I can't believe what I just heard.

"Listen, Angel," he says. "A person in my position can't take on the responsibility of having someone like you live with them."

"Someone like me?"

"Angel, in the law firm I'm with, there are people who don't even know I'm gay."

How can anyone not know he's gay? He's as queer as they come.

"And among gays in my age group, this whole HIV thing isn't ever discussed."

"So you're ashamed of me?" I ask.

"I'm not ashamed of you, but I have a reputation to uphold. Old gays don't want to know that HIV and AIDS even exist. They see them as a scourge on the community. One more strike against us. And if it becomes known that I'm letting someone who's HIV positive stay with me…"

"You're ashamed of me, admit it!"

"I'm not Angel! Damn, this is hard!"

"But what about Sherese, you hypocrite?"

"Whoa! Now wait just a minute. Sherwin was also a recovering addict. Ever wonder why you never saw him wear short sleeves?"

"I know Sherese used to shoot up when she was younger and that she kicked," I say. "But what does that have to do anything?"

"You get AIDS from shooting up, too. Somehow it's more acceptable in the circles Sherwin and I traveled in if you got it that way. Then no one can point the finger at the gay lifestyle."

"But what about Ernie?" I ask.

"He and Sherwin met in rehab. He's a recovering addict also. They saved each other, you could say."

"So does Ernie have AIDS too?" 

"Yes, he does. And he'll die soon, too." 

I take a moment to let that sink in. No wonder Ernie didn't want me to live there. He was ashamed of his past.

But there are more pressing concerns I need to discuss with Ross.

"So you're just going to throw me out in the street?"

"No, of course not!" he says, taken aback.

"Then what?"

"This weekend, I'll help you find a place."

"And what will I do for money? My paycheck won't last forever."

"Well, I wasn't going to tell you about this," explained Ross. "But Sherwin left you a small inheritance."

"She did?" I wondered why Ross and Ernie wouldn't let me attend the reading of Sherese's will.

"I opened up a trust fund in your name. When you turned twenty-one, I was going to hand it over to you. But I think you need it now."

I can't think of anything to say, so I just sit there looking at him.

"It's not a lot of money, but it's a start," says Ross. "I'll even help you find another job. I'll help you get into college even. You're a smart kid, Angel, you deserve to go to college."

"But what about the HIV?" I want to know. "Doesn't that ruin any chance of a future?"

"Well, you'll eventually get AIDS," he explains. "But there are treatments that can prolong that process. There's no reason why you can't fulfill your dreams like anyone else."

"I've heard about that AZT," I say. "But isn't it expensive?"

"I'll pay for you to see a doctor on a regular basis and I'll pay for the medicine, too."

"Why are you doing all this for me?" I ask. "I thought you were ashamed of me."

"No, I'm ashamed of how old gays react to what they don't understand. Because they can be just as bigoted anyone else," says Ross. "Besides, it's a Grandma's duty to look after her grandkids."

"Thank you, Ross," I say.

"You know, I agree with what Ernie said. You are getting too old to depend solely on others. I'm more diplomatic about it, though," he tells me. "I'm willing to help you become independent. Ernie's tough love approach is what I don't agree with."

I guess I can't hate Ross for not letting me live with him. He's still going to help me out and I appreciate that. And he's right, I'm nineteen years old and it's about time I started making it on my own. Besides, it'll be cool to have my own place.

Ross sold the House O' Drag and we split the money, so I have a little bit more for my nest egg. He also found me a small apartment on the Lower East Side.

"It's not the best neighborhood, but you'll get used to it," he tells me when we go to look at the place.

"The landlord's gay," he continues. "So I knew this would be the place for you."

The building is on 11th and Avenue C. The apartment is on the third floor. Ross and I climb the stairs and go in. It's small but cute.

It's got one main room, a kitchen, a walk in closet and a bathroom. The bed comes out of the wall in the main room. Ross tells me I should by a new mattress since we don't know how old this one is. Eww!

"It's nice," I tell him. "Thanks Grandma." I give him a hug.

"Now, I'm having a phone put in here so you can call me," he says. "I'll pay for the installation but you're responsible for the bills."

"Okay," I say. I'm gonna have a phone too! This is too cool.

After about three months, I'm getting accustomed to being on my own. The neighborhood isn't as bad as I thought. It's quite interesting, actually. I've learned to figure out when a drug deal is going down in broad daylight, and I'm getting used to the prostitutes turning tricks in the alleys. I just look the other way.

All the furniture in my apartment either came with it or Ross bought it second hand. But I don't care, it's mine. The T.V.'s black and white, but that's okay, I don't watch much T.V. anyway.

I'm going to college now. It's Cooper Union, so it's free. I still can't believe I got in though. You have to be an incredible artist to get in there. I brought the brochure to Ross' to show him.

"I dunno, Angel," he said when I told him that was where I wanted to go. "Are you sure you don't wanna go to NYU or something."

"Christopher told me that this is a good school," I told him. "He went there."

"Now which one's Christopher again?" asked Ross.

"Christina," I told him, giving him Christopher's stage name.

"Ahh," Ross said. "And what does he do again, besides perform in drag?"

"He's a fashion designer," I reminded him. "Remember that red dress I used to love to wear onstage? The one I rocked out to Mariah Carey in?" Ross looked at me like he didn't know what I was talking about.

"Well, anyway," I continued. "Christopher designed it."

"Oh now I remember," said Ross. "That sure was a cute dress. If I were just a little younger and thinner…"

"So, can I apply to Cooper Union?" I asked impatiently.

"Sure, kid," said Ross.

One of the admission requirements was to present a portfolio. I didn't have one. So I stayed up every night for a week and just drew pictures. They must have seen some talent, 'cause they let me in.

I always could draw pretty well, and I've wanted to be a fashion designer ever since Chris told me that's what he did. He owns a store called Miss Thang and he got me a job there. I work the register.

Christopher's store isn't your average clothing store. Sure, the clothes look like women's clothes. But they're for men. Men who dress like women, actually. See, the clothes are a little bit longer and narrower than the average women's clothes. The shoes are just a little bit bigger. 

I work during the day and go to school at night.

Life is pretty damn good!

Oh, I almost forgot to mention that I still play the drums. I never wanna give that up. The good city of New York granted me a hat passing license and I play for donations every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. My spot is on the edge of the vacant lot on 11th between Avenues A and B.

All these artists hang out there, playing music, dancing, juggling, painting, you name it. There's a crazy girl named Maureen who does what she calls "performance art." She'll take a topic from the news, anything you give her, and write a song about it. She'll put a dance with it too. 

It's supposed to be philosophical and deep. Personally, I think it's tripped out.

There's a guy who hangs out there who films Maureen with a Super 8 movie camera. I think he's her boyfriend. It's hard to tell, 'cause one minute they're screaming at each other, and the next they're trying to eat each other's faces off.

I don't have much of a social life, which is fine by me. I'm not ready to tell anyone about my condition. I don't think I ever will be. As long as people like me for who I am, that's all that matters.

Christopher knows, but he treats me the same as he always did. He keeps trying to get me to go to this support group though. It's called Life Support and it's for people who are HIV positive. His friend, Paul, runs it. I keep telling him I'd think about it.

Well, I'm done thinking because I just found my reason to go. His name is Kim. Actually his name is David and he's a drag performer. In or out of drag, that boy looks good. 

He's Korean-American and Kim is actually his last name. When I first saw him come in, he was dressed as David. I could not stop staring at him. He's got soft features and a nice body. His glossy black hair is long enough for him to style like a lady.

And when he came out of that dressing room in a floor length pink formal, forget it! That boy defines beauty, okay?

But I never got the nerve to speak to him. I was too shy and I was afraid he'd find out about my condition.

Then one day, I heard Christopher ask him if he was still going to Life Support. 

"Every Friday night at 9:30," says David. "Why?"

"Well, I'm trying to get Angel here to go," says Chris, pointing to me. Great, let the whole neighborhood know I'm HIV positive.

"Are you positive?" asks David. For the first time, he actually acknowledges my presence. His face lit up as he spoke to me. I felt my cheeks get hot.

"Yea," I tell him. I hope he doesn't ask me how I got it.

"Well, you should come to Life Support," he insists. "we could always use some new blood. Oooh, that sounds bad." His laugh is so sexy.

"Okay," I tell him. "I'll go."

"See you there tomorrow night," says David. "Don't be late."

Oh I won't, Baby, I think to myself.

It's 9:20 and I'm so nervous. Chris gave me Paul's business card and I can't stop looking at it. I want to make sure I don't get lost.

It's in a building that used to be a warehouse. I take the rickety metal stairs to the third floor. 

There are a few people there already, including Kim. She's dressed in a light blue slip dress and she's got her hair piled on top of her head. A vision of loveliness.

I try to get Kim's attention but she's busy working the room. 

When it's time to start, Paul asks everyone to introduce themselves. When they get to me, I'm too nervous to talk.

"Just take your time, hon," says Kim. Well, in that case…

"My name is Angel," I say confidently. Everyone says "Hi Angel." I look at Kim and she's smiling.

After I've been to a few meetings, I decide to be daring. For the first time in a long time, I go out in public in drag.

I got my black leather mini skirt, my red top and leather jacket. I'm wearing my stiletto ankle boots and my black bob wig.

"Angel?" asks Kim when I enter the room. "Is that you?"

"Sure is," I tell her. I can't stop smiling.

"Wow, you make one convincing queen, I'm impressed," she says, kissing my cheek.

"Well, you should be," I tease. She laughs that sexy laugh.

Life Support is okay but I really only go to stare at Kim, or David, depending on how he/she's dressed on a given night. Paul can sense this, and tonight it's getting on his nerves.

While people are giving their affirmations, Kim keeps playing with my knee and I keep giggling. 

"Stop it you nympho," I squeal a little too loudly. Paul clears his throat, and the room is quiet. Everyone is staring at me.

"Angel," Paul reprimands.

"Sorry," I say, looking down.

"Now I think I'm just going to have to separate you and Kim," he says. "Kim, why don't you switch places with Gordon?"

Kim is now sitting two chairs away from me. She leans over Gordon, smiles at me and waves. I giggle. Paul still isn't pleased.

"Angel," he says. "Trade places with Mimi."

Actually, I don't mind sitting by Mimi. She's about the same age as me and we're the two youngest people at Life Support. She's a stripper, which I find fascinating. She's easy to talk to and if I were a real girl, I'd want her to be my best friend.

"Honey, you look fierce," she whispers to me. I glance over at Paul, he's busy listening to Sue's affirmation.

"Thanks," I whisper back and then focus on what Sue's saying. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kim flirting with Gordon. I see that Paul notices too, but he doesn't do shit.

Sue is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. 

In walks a tall black man. He is gorgeous. Someone help me scrape my tongue off the floor.

When Paul asks him what his name is, he says his name is John.

Or is it Tom?


	5. At Twenty

At Twenty

The next two chapters contain dialogue that is also in the play. Just want to give credit where credit is due. 

At Twenty

Christmas bothers me. I haven't had many good ones. Sure, I had plenty of okay ones when I was little. But my family was poor, so I never got a lot of presents.

My best Christmas ever was two years ago with Sherese and the rest of my adopted family, the family that accepts me as I am. We had a big party at the House O' Drag and all the performers dressed up and sang carols.

I wore a special outfit that Chris designed for me. A green turtleneck baby tee, a white skirt, and a red zippered sweatshirt with a hood that Chris had trimmed with Santa fur. 

And the piece de resistance was a pair of zebra print tights that I saw at the clearance rack at Woolworth's. All that, plus my highest stilettos and I was good to go. And of course, my black bob wig.

I brought the house down with my rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock." 

I still have that outfit, but I haven't worn it since then. I pull it out of the closet from time to time just to look at it. But then I get depressed thinking about Sherese.

There's a picture of me at that party in my scrapbook. I'm posing with the other performers, who had become my sisters, and Sherese. She's right in the middle with a big smile on her face.

It's also a Friday, which means I go to my spot to earn some extra money playing my drums. It's not even about the money anymore. I do it now to get my mind off of certain things. Sherese's death being one of them.

I now own Chris' store. He moved away six months ago to California. He says New York is too depressing and he's always wanted to be an actor. I've changed the name to Angel Baby's. Actually, Ross is the owner; I just run the place. Ross prefers to call himself a silent partner. He's referred a lot of people to me and business is good. I had to drop out of Cooper Union, though, because of all my responsibilities.

But despite my business success, this has been a rough year for me. David, a.k.a. Kim, is now on the AIDS floor of the hospital I used to work at. The same hospital where Sherese died.

Mimi hasn't been at any Life Support meetings in a long while. I see her on the street sometimes. She says hello but she always seems like she's in a hurry to get somewhere.

So, when I play my drums near the vacant lot, it's therapy. If people don't want to throw money into my hat, they don't have to. I'm not playing for them anymore.

I stopped going to Life Support myself a couple of weeks ago. Paul stopped by Angel Baby's to ask why I haven't been there. I've been making excuses about being busy with the store and not feeling well.

"Are you taking your AZT?" he asks.

"Actually, no," I told him the last time he asked. I was getting sick of the side effects, so I stopped taking it around sometime over the summer.

"Well," says Paul. "It's your prerogative." That's what he says to everyone who decides not to take their meds.

"No one can force you to take your meds," he's always saying. "You are in control of your destiny. You decide where you want to go."

Another reason I stopped taking my AZT was that I can't get over the fact that it's not a cure for what I have. The medication is only supposed to improve the quality of whatever life I have left. Not a good enough trade-off, if you ask me. 

I mean, if this shit's supposed to make you feel better, then how come I'm puking my guts out, I have diarrhea and headaches and I'm depressed as hell?

Ross doesn't know that I've stopped taking it. If he knew, it would break his heart.

Anyway, I'm at the lot playing my drums. The artists don't hang out there anymore because the owner of the lot has finally decided to do something with the property after all this time. 

The artists have been harassed all month by the cops, so most of them have just given up and gone elsewhere. Now only the die-hards remain, like Maureen. She's staging a protest/show on the lot at midnight. I have a flyer for it taped to my bass drum.

Homeless people have taken over the lot now. They've been sleeping in the lot for a couple of nights now. This is to protest the fact that a homeless man was shot a few weeks ago when all he was doing was picking up cans for recycling. The homeless people are not moving from the lot until the person responsible for the shooting is arrested and locked up.

It's 6:00 p.m. and I've been at it for about an hour. Some of the homeless people don't like it, but I don't care. I need this. I get hit in the head with wadded up newspapers, cans and other assorted items but I just keep on playing.

Soon, there's a commotion among the people in the lot and on the street. I stop playing and look up. A limousine has just pulled up in front of me. Is that what all the fuss is about? Who cares?

I start playing again when I hear a shout.

"Young man! Excuse me, young man!" I look up. Some lady is poking her head out of the window. She motions for me to go over there. What the hell, I get up and walk over to the car, sticks in hand.

"Yea?" I ask impatiently. She's interrupting an important Friday night ritual and I'm getting irritated.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor," she said.

"The safest way out of the neighborhood is to go over to 14th street and take a right on…"

"No, no, no," she clucks. "Could you just listen to me?"

"What?" I say, annoyed as hell.

"Okay, there's money in it for you," she begins.

"Money in _what_ for me?" This is getting tired.

"I will pay you $1,000 if you do me one small favor," she says in a loud whisper. "Get in. Oh, and bring your contraption." She points to my drum kit.

What have I got to lose?

I pack up my snare, tom tom, bass and high hat. The chauffeur helps me stuff it all into the back of the limo.

So I'm squeezed into the back of this limousine with my drum kit and I'm sitting across from some old lady in a mink coat. 

"I just wanna tell you that I'm not a prostitute or anything. So, if what you have in mind is sexual, then you can forget it," I tell her. She chuckles softly.

"It's not like that at all, dear," she says. "What I want you to do is set up your…your things," she gestures to my drums, "under a certain window in my Park Avenue condo."

"Okay…" what is she getting at?

"This woman has the most annoying dog. It yaps and yaps and yaps all night long and I haven't slept in a year because of it."

"And this has to do with my drums, how?" I ask.

"What I want you to do," she explains, "is set up this, this, thing…on my balcony. I live right underneath the wretch who owns this beast."

"Go on," I tell her. 

"If you play loud and fast, the beast might have a heart attack. The imbecile leaves the window open at all hours and the dog likes to hang out on the ledge."

"Thousand dollars, you said?" 

"That's right young man," she reminds me. "And I'll pay you extra if you decorate my Christmas tree. I just haven't had any time to do it, I've been so busy."

Okay, so I've got my kit set up on the lady's balcony. I'm twenty-two stories up and I'm playing my guts out. I've never played so hard, loud and fast in my life. My hands will have big calluses and blisters on them tomorrow but this is worth it. 

I could hear the damn dog from the moment we got into the lady's unit. No wonder she's willing to pay such a high price to get rid of it.

Evita the Akita appears on the windowsill just to the side of the upper balcony. She's howling like crazy, but I ignore her. I'm not being paid to give a shit if that dog's in pain.

Suddenly, I hear a yelp and I stop playing. I look up just in time to see that mangy mutt slip and fall off the windowsill. I run to the edge of the balcony and watch it plummet to its death.

I finally hear a faint whimper as it hits the ground. Eww! Good thing I can't see very well up here. I open the sliding door and poke my head inside.

"Hey lady," I yell. She emerges from the kitchen with a glass in her hand.

"Well, what do you know? The god awful barking stopped," she says, her voice slurring.

"Come out here, you gotta see this," I tell her. She follows me outside and peers over the edge of the balcony.

"It was so disturbed by my playing that it committed suicide," I tell her gleefully.

"Well, I thought it would have a heart attack, but this is just as good," she said. "Sanitation can scrape it up in the morning."

I follow her back inside. She takes a painting off a wall in the living room and a safe is revealed. She works the combination, opens the safe, and pulls out a wad of bills. It's all tens and it has a paper band around it. 

"Go ahead and count it," she says. I count 100 ten-dollar bills.

"Still need me to decorate the tree?" I ask.

"No, that'll be all," she says. "Suddenly, I'm feeling festive. I'll do the damn tree myself. My driver will help you pack up your drums and drop you off at your corner."

When I get back to Alphabet City, the driver helps me unload my kit. I'm about to lug the cases back to my apartment when I hear someone moaning.

In the doorway of a loft apartment building, I see someone sitting on the steps doubled in pain. I set the cases down and go over to see what's wrong.

"You okay, honey?" I ask the man on the steps. He looks up at me and smiles weakly.

"I'm afraid so," he says. He looks familiar. A face that gorgeous is hard to forget.

"Were you jumped?" I ask.

"Yea, but I didn't have any money so they took my coat," he says. 

"You left a sleeve!" he shouts into the night air. I find a piece of cloth on the ground. It's a coat sleeve. I hand it to him.

"I'm Angel," I tell him. He smiles.

"What a coincidence," he says. "I'm Tom Collins. My friends call me Collins, you can too."

"My place isn't far. Only a block away," I tell him. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"Thank you," he says softly.

"Then I can change," I add. "There's a Life Support meeting at 9:30."

"Life Support?" he asks. He's not shocked, that's a good sign.

"Yes," I tell him. "I have AIDS." I wait for his reaction.

"So do I," he tells me. "I used to go to Life Support."

"That's were I know you from," I say. "I knew you looked familiar."

"Look," he says. "I'd love to go with you, honest. But I'm supposed to meet some friends."

"First we need to clean and bandage that knee," I insist. "Then we can go find your friends."

I let him lean on me as we walk back to my apartment. The drum cases are still sitting on the sidewalk. I'm not worried, though. Collins is more important than some beat up old Ludwigs.

Back at my place, I dress his knee. While he's in the bathroom washing up, I go into my closet and change into my special Christmas outfit. It still fits!

I emerge from the closet just as he comes out of the bathroom. As soon as he sees me, he smiles.

"Now I remember you!" he chuckles. "You look good in drag." I blush.

On the way to go see Collins' friends we do a little grocery shopping. Collins told me that Mark and Roger are in danger of being evicted and their heat and lights just got turned off. 

We sit in the dark at their place as I tell them all about my experience on Park Avenue.

"And she handed you the money just like that?" Mark asked. 

"She did! And it's burning a hole in my purse," I tell him. "Help me spend it."

"After Maureen's show, let's all go to the Life Café," says Collins. Roger and Mark nod in agreement. 

Our little kaffee klatch is interrupted by Roger and Mark's landlord. Collins and I sit and watch him try and sell them on the idea of some fake artists' colony he wants to develop. Puh-leeze!

After Benny leaves, Collins invites them to the Life Support meeting. Roger declines but promises to meet us at Maureen's show later.

"Speaking of Maureen's show," says Mark. "I have to help Joanne set up."

"Who's Joanne?" asks Collins.

"Maureen's girlfriend," he answers.

"Ahh," says Collins.

Hmm. I didn't know Maureen swung both ways.

On the way to the Life Support meeting, I find out that Collins was living in Boston for the past year. He taught at MIT but got fired when he hacked into their central computer system. 

Intelligent and daring as well as handsome! 

After the meeting, I take Collins to St. Mark's place to buy him a coat.

"You don't have to do this for me," he says.

"But it's Christmas," I tell him. I'm looking through coats trying to find one that will do this beautiful man justice. All the while, he's telling me he doesn't deserve this.

"Oh just be quiet and kiss me," I tell him. He obliges and I'm glad he does. 

We go see Maureen's show. It's tripped out. She's singing about diet coke, Benny and the Cow that Jumped Over the Moon. I don't get any of it. I look over at Collins. Does he get any of this?

After the show, the crowd that was at the lot goes to the Life Café. At first the maitre'd won't seat us. I slip him a twenty and he asks the busboys to push together some tables.

Benny's there with some old white guy. He tries to mess with us but we all mess with him right back. I find out that the dog whose death I caused was his! 

Gotta keep a straight face.

Mimi's sitting next to Roger and they both look pretty cozy. I lean over and whisper to Mimi.

"He's so cute, you go girl!" 

She smiles. 

Pretty soon, we're laughing and talking and having a good time. We make so much noise that Benny threatens to have us kicked out. Finally, he gives up on us and he and the old guy leave.

Joanne, Maureen's girlfriend, comes into the restaurant and tells us that there's a riot in the lot. People are mooing?

We get up on the tables and dance and act crazy. I guess you could say that we're staging out own riot in the Life Café. 

The maitre'd finally kicks us out.

"So," I ask Collins, "what are you going to do for the rest of the evening."

"Hon," he says, "it's already morning." He kisses me on the forehead. I giggle.

"Then what are you doing for the rest of the morning?" I tease.

"Well, I was going to ask Roger and Mark if I could crash at their place. But I guess that's out of the question."

Benny had called the police earlier and they came and padlocked their building.

"You need a place to stay?" I tell him. "Come home with me." Please say yes. Please say yes.

"I'd love to," he says in all seriousness. He puts his arm around my shoulders and I put mine around his waist. We walk for a while without saying anything. My head rests on his shoulder.

Suddenly I stop walking.

"Wait!" 

"What is it?" he asks.

"Condoms!"

"What about them?" he asks. He looks slightly amused.

"I don't have any at my place." Oh no, I hope he doesn't think I'm a slut.

"Relax," he chuckles. "We'll find a drugstore."

I never knew condom shopping could be so much fun! The old lady behind the register gives us a funny look as she rings them up.

"Merry Christmas!" we sing in unison as we leave the store. 

When we get back to my place, the first thing I do is pull my bed out of the wall. I lay on it and look up at Collins. He smiles and laughs all sexy.

"I can't believe a skinny boy like you can keep that bed from flying back into the wall," he says.

"Well then," I tell him. "You're just going to have to help me anchor it down."

He jumps onto the bed and tickles me.

I haven't felt this good in years.

About freakin' time!


	6. At Twenty-One

* "As Long as You Love Me," by the Backstreet Boys

* "As Long as You Love Me," by the Backstreet Boys.

At Twenty-One

"I don't care who you are, where you're from, what you did, as long as you love me*," I sing along with the radio.

Collins doesn't know it yet, but that's our song.

He's been staying with me since Christmas and I've been singing and smiling ever since. I try not to sing too loud since he's fast asleep just a couple of feet away.

I'm making breakfast for us. Tofu scramble since he's a vegetarian. Maybe I'll become one too. 

I'm still in my pajamas but on my head is a blonde wig I bought from the Korean lady down the street from my store. I was going to put it on a mannequin, but this morning, I felt daring, so I decided to try it on. Not bad, if I do say so myself.

On his first morning here, we talked about how each of us got AIDS. I was afraid he'd think less of me when I told him about Jason.

"If you want to leave now, I'll understand," I told him. He put his arms around me and said he'd never leave.

"I'll stay as long as you want me to," he said.

"You don't think that what I did was disgusting?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," he said. "I think that what that man did was disgusting."

I was so relieved that he didn't judge me that I settled into his arms and cried.

"Besides," he said, "it's not like I was such a saint myself."

He told me that he had an affair with one of his students when he taught at NYU. The boy's parents threatened to have him fired, so he resigned from the university and went to Boston. When he tested positive for HIV, he called all of his past partners except the boy. They all claimed to be negative.

"Then one day," he said, "I got an anonymous phone call from someone who claimed to have slept with the boy. He said that he'd gotten AIDS from him and that I should be tested."

He took a deep breath and continued.

"I found out that boy had been with damn near every gay student and faculty member on campus," he said. "The guy who called me was a fellow student. When he confronted the boy, the boy threatened to have him expelled if he told anyone that they had slept together. Came from a rich and powerful family, that boy."

I looked up at Collins and saw a tear roll down his cheek. Seeing him cry made me cry again. We just lay there in each other's arms crying over each other's pain.

That's why I love that song so much. It describes our relationship perfectly.

And that morning, for the first time in almost six months, I started taking my AZT again.

And now it's New Year's Eve and tomorrow's my birthday. I want everything to be special. 

"Mmm," I hear a voice exclaim, "what smells so good?" I peek my head out of the kitchen and see Collins sitting up in bed.

"Morning Sunshine," I say. He takes a look at me and smiles.

"Nice wig," he says. "What's the occasion?"

"New Year's silly," I giggle. "And tomorrow's my birthday."

"I know," he chuckles. "You only told me a thousand times since we met." He gets up out of bed and puts on his boxers. I hope he doesn't catch me staring. I can't help but stare.

"Happy birthday to you," he sings in that sexy baritone. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday my sweet Angel…" He takes me in his arms and kisses me on the cheek. I giggle.

"Happy birthday to you," he finishes. 

"I'ma have to buy you a present, Miss Thang," he adds.

"No you don't," I tell him. "You're my Christmas and birthday present all rolled into one." 

"I'm hungry," he says, "what's there to eat?"

"Tofu scramble," I tell him. "Now, sit down and I'll give you some." He sits down and I put a plate of food in front of him. Then I pour him a glass of orange juice and set that down as well. I sit across the table from him, anticipating his reaction. Please like it.

"This is good," he says. I go get myself a plate and sit back down. I take a bite and make a face. I never liked tofu. I hope he doesn't see the face I made.

He's scarfing the stuff down like there's no tomorrow. If he wants more after that, I'd gladly scrape my plate off onto his.

"If you want more, you can take from my plate," I tell him. "I'm not that hungry."

"Are you sure?" he asks, before taking a sip of orange juice. 

I nod my head. Maybe I won't go vegetarian.

The phone rings and I go into the main room to answer it. It's Mark, he wants to know if Collins and I are still planning to meet him tonight. 

"Honey," I call out to Collins, "it's Mark, he wants to talk to you." Collins comes into the room and takes the phone from me.

Roger, Mimi and Mark have been staying with Joanne and Maureen for the past week since they're locked out of their building. Actually, Maureen's not there anymore, Joanne threw her out. They broke up.

I go back into the kitchen and start cleaning up. I hear Collins mumbling into the phone. 

"Uh, huh," he says. "Well, I don't know. I'll ask Angel."

"Ask me what?" I ask, standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Do you know where we can get a blowtorch?"

"Hmm, let's see.." I put my chin in my hand and think. "I don't know personally, but I know someone who might."

"Mark," says Collins into the phone. "We'll call you back. Angel needs to talk to somebody about a blowtorch." He hangs up the phone and looks at me.

"Who do you know that might be able to help us?" he asks.

"First of all, why do you need it?" I ask.

"Tonight, Mark and the others are going to try and break back into their building."

"Cool!" I say. "I'll call my grandma."

"Grandma?" he says. "Oh…that grandma!" He chuckles.

I told Collins all about my surrogate aunty, grandma and sisters when we first met.

"I guess you think it sounds silly," I told him.

"Not at all," he said. "when your own family casts you out, you find family elsewhere. As long as you have people who care about you, that's all that matters."

That's what I love about him, he's so understanding and he doesn't judge.

I get on the phone and dial Ross' number.

"Happy New Year, Grandma," I sing into the phone when he answers.

"You sound happy," he says.

"Oh I am and you know why," I giggle. I had told him about Collins. He told me if I was happy then so was he, but to be careful. 

"Do you know where I can get a blowtorch?" I ask him.

"How 'bout the hardware store," Ross answers.

"Oh of course," I say, hitting my head. "Why didn't I think of that. Thanks Grandma." I hang up the phone and it rings again. I pick it up.

"Why do you need a blowtorch?" asks Ross.

"I can't tell you. It's a secret. Happy New Year. Bye Grandma, love you." I say before I hang up.

"Well, I'm getting dressed," I tell Collins. "Gotta go to the hardware store to buy a blowtorch."

I go outside in full drag because I feel like it. I'm wearing the blonde wig, which makes me look like Malibu Barbie. It's long and I pulled it into a ponytail. I have on a blue denim mini, a white blouse, my leather jacket, black tights and my stiletto boots.

The hardware store is practically empty and I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping to freak some people out today. I walk up and down the aisles until I see some blowtorches.

I know nothing about blowtorches, so I just pick the most expensive one. It's probably the best.

I take it up to the counter and set it down. The guy at the register looks at me for a minute before ringing it up.

"Will that be cash, check or charge, uh, Miss?" he asks me.

"Do you take Visa?" I ask. I don't even try to make my voice sound girly.

"Sure do," he says. He seems nice enough. I take the card out of my jacket pocket and hand it to him.

He rings me up and asks me if I want a bag.

"No thank you, Sweetie," I tell him. "I'll just carry it like this."

"Okay, Miss," he says, chuckling. "Happy New Year and enjoy your blowtorch."

"Thank you, I will," I tell him as I leave the store.

It's about five minutes to midnight and Collins and I are walking down 11th street to the building where Mark, Roger and Mimi live. I'm trying to conceal the blowtorch under my coat, but it looks like I'm pregnant, so I decide to just carry it. Who cares if people ask?

When we arrive, we introduce ourselves as James Bond and Pussy Galore. We'd been drinking a little so we're acting silly. I've still got the blonde wig on and I'm wearing the pink and white leather ensemble I designed especially for this night.

Only Mimi and Roger are outside. They tell me that Mark, Maureen and Joanne had managed to scale the building and climb in through a window.

I get to work on the big ass padlock. I've almost got it when I hear a big thud. Joanne has just kicked the door open. She comes outside with Mark and Maureen. I look at my watch. It's officially midinight.

Happy New Year!

We're all dancing and laughing outside and having a great time. Collins picks me up and swings me around.

Our celebration is rudely interrupted by Benny. Who knows how long he's been standing there watching us.

He starts an argument with Roger, Mimi and Maureen about messing up the door. I hide the blowtorch behind my back. Benny claims he was going to let them back in anyway. Yea, sure.

Benny messes with Roger saying that Mimi seduced him into changing his mind, which Mimi flatly refuses. I knew she and Benny had something going a while back because she used to cry to me about what a bastard he was. But I doubt Mimi would be stupid enough to sleep with him again. I sure wouldn't if I had someone as fine as Roger.

I can't stand this! I feel like messing with Benny big time. 

"People," I interrupt, "is this anyway to start a new year? Have compassion, Benny just lost his cat." 

"Actually, it was my dog," says Benny. "But I appreciate your concern." Dumbass, I knew it was your stupid dog who died. I was responsible for its death.

"I remember when my cat fell," I continue, trying to keep a straight face. "I went through hell." I never owned a cat in my life.

"How do you know my dog fell?" asks Benny. Oops!

"Champagne?" says Collins, offering Benny a glass he just poured. God bless you, Honey! I don't know why I care if he finds out about the damn dog. 

Benny accepts the glass and proposes to dogs. Ha!

"No Benny, to you!" we all shout.

I really shouldn't be mean to Benny, though. I didn't know it was his dog when I killed it. And he never really did anything to me. Hey, he apologized didn't he?

"I say we make a resolution," I tell everyone, "that we'll always stay friends."

They all stare at me.

"I'm serious," I say. "I've know some of you, Mimi, Maureen, Mark, for a while now. And the others, I've gotten to know over the past week. We've been through a lot. Let's not throw that away." Suddenly I'm all serious. I hope they can all see that.

Everyone expresses their agreement and we decide to go to the Life Café. Mimi some how gets left behind. Oh well, she'll catch up later.

The maitre'd isn't happy to see us but he seats us anyway. I guess it's because I held a $50 bill in front of my face. As I pass him, I discreetly hand him the bill.

Collins announces that it's my birthday.

"Twenty-one years ago, this beautiful creature was born," he says. He's a little drunk. I feel my face get hot.

Everyone cheers and sings to me…loud! We don't get kicked out though, because we're surrounded by people who are louder and drunker than we are.

At around three o'clock in the morning, we all part ways. Back at my place, my man and I have a little celebration of our own.

"Happy birthday, my sweet Angel," he sings between kisses. "Happy birthday to you."

I must say, this year has gotten off to a great start for me. I have a wonderful man in my life and my business is doing great. Mimi and Maureen have started working for me, which is cool. The customers appreciate their fashion advice. 

Today, however, didn't start out so well. I've just come out of the stock room when Maureen and Mimi tell me to go outside to look at the store window.

"I think it is absolutely disgusting," Maureen exclaims. She grabs my hand and leads me outside. A large red swastika has been spray painted on the display window. 

"We didn't get a good look at the bastards, sorry," says Mimi.

"It's okay, Sweetheart," I say, blinking back tears. I go inside and get a bucket of water and a sponge from the stock room. This isn't the first time some asshole's vandalized the store and others on this block. The adult video store gets crosses painted on it all the time.

As I'm washing off the mess, Maureen's babbling about how America's a free country and people of all colors and sexual orientations should be able to coexist peacefully and so on. I want to tell her to shut the hell up, but she means well, so I don't.

"Hey faggot," growls a voice behind me. "What's the matter, don't you like how we decorated your store window?" I turn around and see two skinheads sneering at me. I'm in full drag today, but it's still easy to tell I'm not a real girl.

"What the hell?" I scream at them.

"Look at you," says one of them. "You make an ugly girl." Obviously the motherfucker doesn't get out of Jersey too often.

"Who'd want you when they can have a real woman, like them?" the first one says, pointing to the girls.

"Look, asshole," I tell him. "I am more of a woman than you will ever have and more of a man than you will ever be!" I threw the red, soapy sponge at him. Then I dump the bucket of water over his friend's head.

By this time, people have stopped on the street to witness the confrontation. Many of these people are business owners who have also been hit by vandals. My neighbors applaud and holler. Embarrassed, the skinheads run down the street. They're chased by two big, beefy guys from the leather bar.

I'm still too pissed to laugh. I go inside and put the bucket and sponge away.

"Wow girl, you are fierce!" says Mimi, holding up her hand. I smack it and then go sit behind the counter.

"I'm sick of people coming into this neighborhood just to cause trouble. Why can't they leave us alone?" I fold my arms and rest my head down on the counter. I start to cry. The girls come behind the counter and put their arms around me.

"They come around here because their neighborhood is so damn boring," says Maureen. We all laugh.

I can't say that everyone who passes through is bad.

About a month after the incident, I encountered the other kind of unexpected visitor.

I'm coming back from the diner with lunch for me and the girls when I spot them. A family of four; mom, dad, boy, girl, comes walking toward me. They look lost and scared. Some of the people on the street are whispering, pointing and laughing.

"I bet they're from the Midwest," says Lamarr, the adult video store owner.

Finally, the four of them sit down on a bus bench. The dad pulls out a map and unfolds it.

"They're consulting a map," says Julie, from the tattoo and piercing place. "This is too much."

What's wrong with them? Would they rather have Bubba the skinhead and his inbred friends pass through again?

I approach the family and offer assistance.

"Excuse me," I say. They all turn to look at me. Obviously, they're freaked out by my appearance. I'm in drag again.

"Would you like some help getting out of the neighborhood?" I ask.

"I don't get it," says the dad, "we're trying to find the Statue of Liberty. This map doesn't do us any good." I'm so relieved that he trusts me.

"Come on," I tell him. "I'll get you out of the neighborhood safely. Whoever sold you that map should be sued."

Smiling, they all get up and follow me. People are peering out of store windows at us.

"First, I need to drop this food off," I tell them. I lead them to Angel Baby's and ask them to come inside and wait.

I introduce them to Mimi and Maureen who smile and wave.

"What's shakin'?" says Maureen. The kids giggle. The parents look around the store.

"I'm going to take these poor people to the Statue of Liberty," I tell the girls. "They have a defective map." 

We take the subway to the Stated Island ferry. I pay everyone's fare. They're asking me questions like how long have I lived in New York and is my name really Angel. I tell them that I've lived in New York all my life and that my name really is Angel.

"In the Hispanic culture," I explain to them, "it's not unusual to name your son Angel."

"Do you know that you've got a dress on?" the little girl asks.

"Why yes, honey," I tell her. "I designed this dress and sewed it myself. Do you like it?"

"I think it looks pretty," she says.

When we get to the docks I tell them that this is where we part ways.

"I really must get back to work," I tell them.

"We can't thank you enough young ma-, I mean, Angel," says the dad.

"Don't mention it," I say.

"Wait," says the mom, "can we get a picture of you?"

"Why cetainly," I say. The mom asks a passerby to take the picture. As the man hands her back the camera, he shakes his head. Before leaving, I catch a glimpse of the boy. He has blonde hair and blue eyes like Erich. I wonder what he'll grow up to become.

Lately I haven't been feeling well, but I'm too scared to go to the doctor. I'm afraid of what he might tell me. I have this nasty cough that won't go away. It sounds just like Sherese's.

This morning, Collins won't let me go to work because I've spent the last half hour in the bathroom throwing up.

"The girls will handle it, Angel," he says. "You get some rest."

Why is there fear in his eyes?

One day off from work becomes a whole week. I'm having trouble getting out of bed. Why isn't this AZT working like it's supposed to?

I'm trying to wake up one morning when Collins nudges my shoulder.

"Angel Baby," he says, "Ross is on the phone, do you feel like talking?" I manage to sit up in bed.

"Sure," I say, "give me the phone." He hands it to me.

"Hi Grandma," I say, trying unsuccessfully to sound cheerful.

"Angel," he says, "Tom says you've been really sick. What happened, did you stop taking your meds?"

"For a while I did," I tell him. "But since I met Tom, I've been taking them every day."

"And how are your t-cells?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say.

"When's the last time you've been to the doctor?"

"About a year ago."

"Angel! What are you thinking?" he scolds. "You know that the only way to keep from getting really sick is to take your meds and see the doctor."

"Yea, well on the _Real World_ that Hispanic guy, Pedro took his meds and saw the doctor and he died," I tell Ross.

When Mimi was in the middle of her Benny crisis, the first one, I used to spend a lot of time at her place. She had an illegal cable hook up. Pedro died about a year after the show aired and she told me about it. We held a small memorial service for him in her apartment. It was nice, we lit candles and prayed.

"This ain't a television show, Angel, this is your life," he says.

A few weeks later, I'm trying to get out of bed. I manage to stand up but I fall down on the floor. I'm sweaty and shaky. Collins picks me up and puts me back in bed.

Lately, he hasn't been sleeping in the bed with me. Instead, he sleeps in the recliner next to the window. Is he afraid of me.

I hear his voice mumbling. I think he's talking on the phone. I drift off to sleep again, only to have him tap on my shoulder.

"Angel, Ross is on his way," he says. "We're taking you to the hospital."

"No!"

"Yes, baby. You're getting too sick to stay here."

"But the store…"

"The girls have everything under control," he says.

"But they have other jobs too," I tell him.

"One's a stripper and the other's a performance artist," he chuckles. "Hardly the nine to five grind."

Ross and Collins are the only people who are allowed to come visit me. Ross told the hospital staff that he was my grandfather and that Collins was my half brother. I don't think they believe it, but I don't think they care, either.

Some days I'm able to sit up in bed and talk. On those days, Collins tells me what everyone's up to. The girls want to know if they can include S and M stuff in the store.

"Sure," I say, "as long as they don't stray too far from the original concept. The queens depend me." 

Collins looks at me for a while and then clears his throat.

"Angel…"

"Yes?" 

"Never mind."

"Honey, if you have something to say to me, I wish you'd just say it," I tell him.

"You know you might not get out of here," he says.

"But today I'm feeling better," I tell him, "and yesterday…"

"But not everyday," he says. "You've got to stop talking as if you're going to go home. Because you're not." He looks down at the floor.

"I'm sorry babe," he whispers.

"But I've got you coming to visit me every day," I insist. "You're taking care of me. You're love is the only thing I need." He gives me a pained smile.

"I wish it were that simple," he says. "But it's not. You're dying." He starts to cry and then I start too.

We hold each other and just cry.

A few days later, I get an unexpected visitor. Someone I never wanted to see again.

She stands in the doorway and just looks at me. She looks old and worn out. I hope she doesn't blame me for that.

"Who let you in here?" I snap.

"I told the nurse who I was m'ijo."

"M'ijo? That's funny, the last time we spoke, you told me I wasn't your son!"

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Well, she should be.

"Look lady," I shout at her with all the strength I could muster, "get the hell out of here! I have nothing to say to you!" She backs away from the door and disappears.

Later that day, Ross comes to see me. It's time to draw up my will.

"Did your mother come and see you?" he asks.

"So you're the one who told her I was here!" 

"Yes, I did," he tells me. "I thought she should see you at least once before you pass on." By this time, I've accepted the fact that I won't be leaving this hospital alive.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

"Because I feel bad that Sherwin's mother didn't get to see him before he died. And my mother won't see me before I die."

"But you two weren't kicked out of your house for being gay!"

"You don't know that," he says. "You think you're the only one whose parents couldn't accept their gay son?"

"Sorry," I tell him. "You should have told me first."

"I know," he says. "I should have. But we have more important matters to discuss."

"I was hoping we could put this off."

"Until when?" 

"Fine," I tell Ross. "First off, I want Collins to take over the lease to the apartment." 

"That's been done," he says.

"I want the girls to become managers of the store," I say.

"Arrangements have already been made."

"As for my money, I want it to go to you and Collins. A fifty-fifty split."

"I can't take your money, kid," he says.

"You have to, you've done so much for me," I insist.

"Okay then," he chuckles. "But not fifty-fifty. More like sixty-forty. I'll take the forty."

"Okay."

About a week later, I can no longer sit up in bed. It hurts to even talk. Collins has been coming every night. He talks to me and sings to me. I have my own room, so he's allowed to sleep in the extra bed.

Six months ago, he got a teaching job at CUNY. I hope nobody makes trouble for him there. He had gotten his old job back at NYU, but he said the place brought back too many bad memories.

One night when he comes to see me, I can barely move at all. 

"Hey Sugar, did you miss me," he says, smiling.

I nod my head. It hurts to nod. He holds my hand. I grab onto his arm with both hands.

"Want me to sing you a song?" he asks. He's got such a beautiful voice.

"What's that song from the radio that you used to like so much? The one that you said was our song?"

I want to answer, but I can't.

"Although loneliness has always been a friend of mine," he begins. 'That's the one', I want to say.

"Let me know if I mess up, okay?" he chuckles. I wish I could talk, but I can't.

"Good, good," he says, playing along.

"I'm leaving my life in your hands," he continues. He sings a few more lines. The sound of his voice is very soothing.

I slip away into total darkness.

I don't wake up.

  



End file.
